In America by Susan Sontag Page B

and followed the trail that brought her, breathless, to a still higher plateau with grass, dwarf shrubs, and Alpine flowers; in giddy homage to the murder of Adrienne Lecouvreur by the gift of poisoned flowers, she picked a bunch of edelweiss, kissed the odorless blossoms, and lifted her face to the sun. She would have liked to climb to the crest of the Giewont, which she’d done in previous summers with Bogdan and friends and a guide from the village. But, afraid of the dark fancies crowding her mind, she didn’t dare attempt it alone. Even to venture into the foothills through patches of melting snow, and partly up the slopes, she wanted Bogdan, Bogdan only, to accompany her.
    Bogdan’s stride was faster than Maryna’s, and she didn’t mind walking behind him. That way she could feel both accompanied and alone. But sometimes she had to bring him to her side, when she saw something he might be missing. A crow in a tree. The silhouette of a hut. A cross on a hill. A grouping of chamois or an ibex on a nearby crag. The eagle swooping down on some luckless marmot.
    â€œWait,” she would cry, “did you see that?” Or: “I want to show you something.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œUp there.”
    He would look in the direction she pointed.
    â€œFrom here. Come back here.”
    He would come halfway and look again.
    â€œNo, right here.”
    She would take his arm and bring him back to where she had stopped to admire, so he could place his booted feet just … there. Then, standing at his side, she could watch him seeing what she had seen and, thoughtfully, not moving for a minute to show he really had seen it.
    What a tyrant I am, Maryna did sometimes think. But he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s so kind, so patient, so husbandly. That was the true liberty, the true satisfaction of marriage, wasn’t it? That you could ask someone, legitimately demand of someone, to see what you saw. Exactly what you saw.
    *   *   *
    FROM A LETTER that Maryna entrusted to one of the highlanders leaving for the market in Kraków, to post as soon as he arrived:
    Ryszard, what have you been doing, thinking, planning? Given your habitual fine opinion of yourself, perhaps I shouldn’t confide that you have been missed here by all of us. Do not feel too self-important, however. For this may be because our usual occupations have been taken from us. First it was snowing for two days—yes, snow in May! And now we’ve had three days of cold rain, so Bogdan and I and the friends have had no choice but to decree ourselves housebound. And now I remember what it was like to be a child in a large family who has been denied permission to go out. For, thus cooped up, we have tired of all subjects of conversation, even that most on our minds, and despite the extreme interest of what Bogdan has told us about a colony in one of the New England states called Brook Farm. Well then, you’ll say, amuse yourselves. But we have! I have devised charades for those who wanted to exercise their acting skills (it wouldn’t have been fair for me to participate)—Bogdan has beaten Jakub and Julian at chess—we have composed songs both jolly and sad (Tadeusz is learning to play the gęśle, that fiddle-like instrument we’ve heard at the shepherds’ encampments)—we have recited Mickiewicz to each other and got through all of As You Like It and Twelfth Night. And, yes, it’s still raining.
    Guess what we did today. We were reduced to entertaining ourselves by killing flies. Truly! This morning among Piotr’s toys I found two tiny bows, Julian made arrows of matches with a needle at the end, and we took turns aiming at the drowsy flies ornamenting the wooden walls of the room where we sit, applauding as one by one our victims fell at our feet. What do you say to such an occupation for Juliet or Mary Stuart?
    Nevertheless, don’t suppose it’s